


from the ashes

by Liu



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Companion Piece, M/M, Slash, Thranduil's perspective, Young Thorin, possible spoilers for the book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to 'the heart is bold that looks on gold'. Told from Thranduil's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from the ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the heart is bold that looks on gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/610112) by [Liu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu). 



> On tumblr, anon requested that I write my Thorin/Thranduil fic from Thranduil's perspective... this is the result. Shorter than the original fic because I'm not a big fan of writing the very same scenes over and over again.

Sometimes, the dwarven lack of subtlety could be very practical, Thranduil thought. Not for the dwarves themselves, of course; but their need to boast their riches was just water on the rumour mills, and so the elven King never needed to wonder how the people under the hill fared.

And they fared quite well in the recent times – just as Thranduil had begun to sense darkness creeping occasionally over the borders of his realm, the talk of the flourishing dwarven kingdom had found its way to his ears. He could not say it worried him, not overtly – but if it was true that the dwarves were getting stronger, it meant it was high time to remind them of Greenwood’s closeness.

While Thranduil disliked diplomatic journeys and usually sent his son in his stead, something was telling him that this time, he needed to depart from his woods and seek out the dwarven King himself. As expected, the welcome was far from warm: the grandeur of Erebor felt sharp and hard to the elven King, and the dwarves made their mistrust clear from the moment Thranduil had set foot in their kingdom. He repaid in kind, bowing to their king more out of habit than out of respect: Thror was frail on his throne, after all. Thranduil could see that the dwarven King was balancing on that precarious point of a mortal’s life when weakness of mind was but a step away, hand in hand with obstinacy and peculiarity.

The only one to regard the elves with open curiosity rather than thinly veiled disagreement was a young dwarf standing at Thror’s side: his clothes and jewellery set him apart as a member of the royal family, and due to his young age, Thranduil guessed it was the King’s grandson. He truly noticed the dwarfling only at dinner: the young one seemed to be quite interested in the elven company, or maybe in Thranduil himself. He kept staring at the elven King, and Thranduil felt light amusement at the eagerness of the dwarfling. It had been so long since Thranduil himself had been so young; Thorin’s eyes were large in his handsome face, full of expectations he had of life, full of the innocence, or possibly inexperience, that kept his look clear and bright. Simply said, Thorin was a refreshing change from the pompous conceit that Thranduil could not stand in the dwarves; and when the dwarfling cornered Thranduil after the feast, the elven king’s amusement increased tenfold.

The dwarf’s hands were hot and damp, and his breath tickled over Thranduil’s chest as the young one leaned into him: he smelled of ale and sweat and leather, the thick air underground caught in his hair and the scent of melted metal etched into his skin; he smelled of youth and taking chances, and his breath burned over Thranduil’s heart. He dismissed the dwarfling with ease, telling himself the boy was just that, a child to be regarded as such, a child who knew not what he truly wanted. 

But in the morning, there was no less heat and a bit more knowledge in Thorin’s eyes as he gazed upon the elven King, and Thranduil found himself glancing at the prince much more often than strictly necessary. True, the dwarven prince was young – but he intrigued Thranduil in the very place that seemed tedious and oppressive otherwise.

It was that unexpected flare of interest that prompted Thranduil to offer a sly smile to the dwarven King himself.

“Your realm is truly a magnificent one, King Thror... it would surely be a pleasure to see more of it,” Thranduil spoke, and his smile turned to Thorin for but a moment.

“I can show you,” the dwarven prince spoke before his grandfather could: Thranduil glimpsed the raised eyebrow it got from Thorin’s father. But the young dwarf himself seemed to have eyes only for Thranduil, and the elven King found it charmingly amusing.

He inclined his head in an almost nonexistent bow towards the young one, a smile still in place:

“It would be an honour to get such a qualified guide... if it does not interfere with your duties, of course?”

It seemed duties had been forsaken for that day: after breakfast, Thranduil was led through a massive hallway he had not seen before, and he briefly wondered, a small quirk of delight on his lips, whether the young one would try to push him against one of those large pillars and have his wicked and inexperienced way.

However, he soon found that without ale, Thorin’s courage was much diminished, at least when it came to matters of flesh. Thranduil had little interest in the halls of Erebor, but the workmanship truly was admirable, and Thorin’s voice echoed pleasantly in the masterfully carved space; Thranduil wondered what it would be like to hear this young one sing, in that deep, velvety rich rasp of his. The steady melody of Thorin’s speech certainly made the droll ramble about history more bearable – Thranduil had lived through all the centuries Thorin spoke of, and he remembered a few of those situations rather differently, but Thorin clearly only repeated what he had learned from the dwarven records of what had truly happened, and so Thranduil let those irregular misconceptions slide. From hall to hall they went, and as they descended lower into the depths of the mountain, Thorin seemed to grow bolder in his talk. His own opinions shone through the echoes of decrepit historians more often than not, and Thranduil was rather surprised to find some of the young one’s remarks rather insightful, for his age and, most of all, for his race.

Then, Thorin’s hand was large and warm, pressing feather-light against Thranduil’s back. It had obviously taken the dwarven prince the better part of the day to get the courage to touch; yet Thranduil could feel a faint tremor through Thorin’s palm. When they descended to a lower level, the hand was pulled away again, and Thranduil found himself strangely apprehensive of that loss; but as he glanced briefly at the young dwarf, he found a sight more captivating than the well-crafted emptiness of Erebor’s halls.

Thorin’s cheeks were shaded in a distinct tinge of embarrassment, and his dark eyes shone with longing. His breath came in controlled, steady huffs, and Thranduil imagined he could almost hear his frantic heartbeat; it was painfully, amusingly obvious to one of Thranduil’s years that the young prince was just now discovering the power of such desires, claimed by them so completely that he knew not what to do with himself.

_Life_ was that storm raging through Thorin’s mind – once again, the young dwarf was a breath of fresh air in the suffocating staleness of the Lonely Mountain, so very alive against his kingdom’s rigid majesty. Thranduil found himself seeking out that liveliness in the next few days more often that not; the talks with Thror seemed to always end at an impasse, with one or both sides barely capable of containing irritation with the other, and Thranduil grew weary of them earlier every day. It was Thorin who seemed to keep Thranduil’s aged distaste towards dwarves as a race in check; Thorin with his shy, yet heated looks, Thorin with his clumsy attempts at seduction. Thranduil kept his advances at bay, telling himself he was mostly amused at the young one’s effort; but as he kept teasing the dwarven prince, he had to admit to himself that he grew curious.

Thorin kissed him the first time Thranduil invited him to his rooms; he had truly intended it to be just a cup of wine, and maybe he had wanted to poke some fun at the dwarf: but Thorin tasted of youth and strength, and the sounds he made when Thranduil taught him to savor a kiss as he would potent wine sparked desire in the elven King such as he had not known in years.

Unwilling to yield to the call of the body as a mere commoner, Thranduil sent the dwarven prince away. He could see confusion melt into humiliated rage in Thorin’s face; but in the morning, when Thranduil entered the dining hall, the look Thorin gave him was full of hurt, and the elven King found himself slipping into a seat close to Thorin. He reached for grapes and his knee pressed in a fleeting touch against the dwarf’s under the table: and Thranduil knew he could no more resist the vigour of Thorin’s spirit than a magpie could a shiny trinket.

Yet teasing Thorin soon became the high point of Thranduil’s days. They spent the evenings by the fire in Thranduil’s room, sipped wine – dwarven, when Thranduil’s short supply of Greenwood vintage ran out – and talked; Thranduil told Thorin some of the history of his kind, and found himself pleasantly surprised when Thorin seemed to take well to other viewpoints than his own, yet stood by his principles where it mattered. More than once it occurred to Thranduil that this princeling would make a fine King one day; usually, those moments were closely followed by Thranduil allowing the young dwarf to test the waters again and get closer than strictly necessary for a friendly talk.

Thranduil wished he could have a similarly pleasant and meaningful conversation with others of Durin’s folk: Thror merely served to prove Thranduil’s estimation from the first day of his visit. The old dwarf was slowly, but surely becoming a little too obsessed with his wealth, a trait Thranduil could not begrudge him in all honesty, but which was making any possible agreement neigh impossible. Old hurts were surfacing and patience was running short, and it did not take long for those last dams of diplomatic masquerades to break.

“You would do well to consider my offer, King Thror,” Thranduil sneered one day, after hours and hours that led nowhere in the matters of defense they had been discussing. “You might find yourself in need of Mirkwood’s aid soon.”

“Is that a threat?!” the dwarven King bellowed, and Thranduil noted with distaste that his voice held none of the pleasant tones of Thorin’s speech.

“Of course not. Though surely you cannot be foolish enough, yet,” Thranduil smirked icily in response, “that you would think your realm invincible?”

Thror rose from his seat, and his hands fell heavy on the marble of the shared table. Thranduil could see the King’s son wince, maybe in worry, most likely in defeat.

“I will sooner let this hill fall on my head than ask for help from your harebrained, thieving kind, Thranduil!”

“Very well,” Thranduil responded quietly, rising as well and motioning for his companions to follow suit. He had spoken of the darkness creeping through the Greenwood’s borders many times in the past days – if Thror did not wish to understand, there was nothing more to say, and Thranduil would not stand for having his kind, his realm, _himself_ insulted.

“I shall depart before the sun rises tomorrow,” he added before he left that hall of fools, rather embittered by the turn of events.

He had only intended to take a bath and wash away the weariness those empty talks had left in his soul; yet when Thorin barged in, unannounced and unexpected, Thranduil could not find it in himself to send the young one away. In but a few decades, maybe a century, he would make a King himself... and with his ability to listen, most likely a much better one than his grandfather. 

Thorin stumbled over a hasty apology; he offered to come back later, and Thranduil knew there would be no later: he would leave in but a few hours, and the next time they saw each other, if ever, would be with Thorin older, wiser, a father to a few dwarflings and a closed door of unexplored possibilities to Thranduil.

And Thranduil was never good with letting something valuable slip through his fingers, be it jewels or land or experience: when the young dwarf took his half-joking order to strip as a challenge, Thranduil found his better judgment at odds with his desires. While the prince peeled away layer after layer of fur and fabric, Thranduil pondered just how far he would take this: when the young dwarf looked up at him, standing in the puddle of his own clothing and his eyes blazing with desire and shame and defiance, Thranduil knew it would be _far._

Suddenly, Thorin’s eyes once again betrayed his age, and so did his words when he asked if he would be allowed to stay; ah, poor misguided dwarfling, so blinded by his freshly awakened lust that he could not see the very same in others... Thranduil was done playing games. Thorin’s hair was soft all over when Thranduil raked his fingers through the dark curls: it was everywhere, and curiosity sparked interest soon enough in the elf. Thorin was young and eager and clumsy in so many things, but his groans sent shivers down Thranduil’s spine, and Thorin’s vigour made up for his lack of skill. His skin was shaded with shame and unfulfilled desires, and Thranduil mapped every inch of it with his fingers and later, with his lips, until he could not taste bathwater but Thorin once again. The dwarven prince was pliant as only a young lover could be when trusting the age and experience of someone else... and Thranduil found himself wishing – and working – to not disappoint that trust. It was a pleasurable effort altogether, and when Thorin’s large, awkward hands slick with sweat rested over Thranduil’s back as the elven King found his release, Thranduil’s mind was blank in that sweet, absolute way that a bath would have never brought him.

He woke sticky and rested well before dawn: Thorin’s arms were still around him, his heavy, steady breath brushing over Thranduil’s neck. The elven King was loath to leave, but he was no longer welcome in this kingdom; he truly doubted that fact would change if the dwarves found their prince in his bed.

He washed himself quickly and dressed; one last glance at the sleeping dwarf sprawled on the bed drew him back once more.

“ _Ae den sevig, telithon angin_ ,” he whispered into the mass of tangled dark hair as he leaned down to brush a tender kiss to the young one’s temple.

“ _Losto vae_.”

..................................

They met again much sooner than Thranduil had expected. He stood on a hill just a few years later, watching one city, one realm, burn in the fiery flames of a dragon’s greed; were the circumstances different, Thranduil would maybe even find it an ironically fitting end for a greedy dwarven King – to be outdone in his love of gold by a creature that was a true embodiment of insatiable avarice.

They were fleeing, the dwarves: fleeing in a chaotic mass of horror, and the air smelled like death and destruction, and Thranduil could not watch this disaster without his stomach turning. He had come with his best troops, sensing unrest, a stir of darkness, coming from the Lonely Mountain. He did not really wish to know how he had felt it, but he had; maybe it was merely the result of his own realm being attacked by darkness more and more.

He had thought maybe someone had invaded the dwarven realm: he had made himself believe he wished to aid Durin’s folk simply to have them indebted, shall Greenwood ever need similar help, to shove Thror’s rash words from before in his face. He only (consciously) thought of Thorin when he spotted him amongst his people, desperately trying to salvage what he could, save as many lives as he could – but it was a futile attempt in that thunderous stampede of thousands.

Thorin saw him as well, and the hope that shone in his eyes made it more difficult to breathe than the ashes in the air; for a moment, Thranduil wished he could send his troops forward and let that hope in the dwarven prince’s heart live on a while longer.

But Thranduil was, first and foremost, a King; the needs of his own people came before everything else, and he could not bear to lose so many to a dragon’s force. He looked away before he turned to signal retreat; he could not bring himself to watch Thorin’s hope shatter in the ashes of his realm.

..........................................

Thranduil watched the flames flicker in the fireplace as he sipped from his wine, memories awakened and swirling in his mind.

Legolas stormed into the room, eyes ablaze.

“You let the dwarves go,” he said accusingly, and Thranduil looked up from the fire at his son, impassive and weary. He said nothing in response, and his silence calmed Legolas a little.

“Ada... you must have known they were getting away,” Legolas spoke again, quiet and questioning. He was not wrong... Thranduil had long made it a point to know everything that transpired within the borders of his suffering realm.

“I did.”

“Then why did you let them...?” Legolas asked again, but Thranduil had no answer that would suffice; he did not know the reason. He could have sent troops to search for the escaped prisoners... they would have caught them, most likely. Yet, he had done nothing – and he could not explain it even to himself. The hatred in Thorin’s eyes made him remember that he was the one who put that seed of darkness in the dwarf’s heart. Thranduil could not say he would regret not letting his people die that day, crushed by the dragon’s claws, burned by the evil fire... but that did not stop him from wondering what would have happened, had their circumstances been different. He could not have helped then... but while his inaction had done much harm that day, this time, it was what Thorin needed.

Not what would bring him happiness, not even peace, Thranduil mused... most likely, it would result in Thorin’s death. But as he once could not have helped even if he wished so, now he could not keep the dwarf from his fate, despite his own desires.

Legolas heaved an exasperated sigh at his father’s silence: he stormed off again, most likely to take some action of his own. Thranduil let him, and his eyes fixed on the dancing flames again as he remembered those few evenings in Erebor. He did not know what Thorin intended – he could only guess, but there were not many goals for a dwarven prince without a realm, and even fewer which lay this side of Mirkwood. It was a fool’s quest, and Thranduil had little hope for its success... but it was not his place to decide the fate of others. He found solace in the thought that he had been right all those years ago in Erebor... Thorin had grown into a finer King than his grandfather, than his father.

“May the mercy of Valar be with you, King Thorin,” Thranduil lifted his goblet towards the flames, thinking of another fireplace in another room, in another time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *my attempt at Sindarin at midnight, with no Internet connection, an old list of Sindarin phrases stored who-knows-why in my laptop, and my mediocre linguistic-divination skillz. Supposed to mean ‘If you need it, I will come.’ And ‘Sleep well.’ Feel free to slap me in the face with correct grammar.


End file.
